


After The Storm

by saltandshore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Rescue, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandshore/pseuds/saltandshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never had the chance to tell him how much he loves his laugh, or his hideous jumpers, or the way he gets wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles at him - only him - and god, he has to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. run and run as the rains come.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic here on AOW! Things to keep in mind: Un-betaed, although I'm a decent proof-reader. Second, I'm Canadian and have no Britpicking connections yet - feel free to volunteer!  
> I'll be posting new chapters as often as I can - I'd love feedback and suggestions! 
> 
> Much love,  
> D

Mycroft steels himself. _He is no different than any other that you’ve dealt with_. _He is but a man. And men can be broken._

He pushes open the steel door to the bleak concrete room and takes a deep breath.

He looks into the eyes of the devil. The devils grins back and speaks, tongue like a snake.

“Give me his heart, and I will give you all you need to know.”

Mycroft knows from the churning, sickening sensation in his chest cavity that he will never forgive himself for this. 

 

-

 

John doesn’t remember the last time he has a decent lie in, or the last time he woke with cold sheets next to him. He should probably be a little more upset about that little fact, considering what day it is and all, but he supposes it comes with the territory. Sherlock territory, that is. 

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head and sinking deeper into his warm, feathery duvet. He contemplates telling Sherlock that he can just bugger off to Scotland Yard and saving London on his own and that the surgery can keep all its sniffling, whiny children and paranoid elderly to itself, but if he’s honest with himself (which he always tries his best to be), there isn’t really anywhere else he’s got to be. 

He second guesses this ‘honest-John’ conclusion the moment his toes hit the cold floor. 

“Sherlock! What’ve you done with my bloody slippers?” He shouts, his voice groggy with clinging sleep. He rubs at this eyes and heaves a sigh as he stands, padding across the freezing floor and down the stairs into the sitting room.

He steps off the last stair, expecting the usual morning scene - Sherlock in his chair, laptop in hand. “Morning, love. Happy  - oh bloody fucking Christ, Sherlock.”

There, in the middle of the sitting room (and on Mrs. Hudson’s carpet, mind) was Sherlock, stamping on a small fire that is blooming from what looked suspiciously like John’s slippers. 

“John! Just in the knick of time, as always. Water might be useful at the moment, as I’m sure even you have observed. Make haste, John!” Sherlock coughs slightly as a plume of smoke rises from the blackened slippers.

John stomps to the kitchen, filling a large bowl with water before returning to Sherlock, who is flailing about like a baby giraffe in a wind storm trying to quell the flames. 

“Alright, alright! Mind your foot, would you?” John shoves Sherlock aside and pours the cold water onto the flames, the bitter sizzle of steam a fitting conclusion to John’s morning. Sometimes he isn’t really sure how he deals with this insanity - John Watson is a man of action, true, but he’s also a man of comforts. Like his slippers. His burnt, smoldering slippers. He turns to face Sherlock, empty bowl dangling from one hand, and a grumpy frown on his normally cheery face.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and harrumphs, “It was a necessary experiment, John. A successful one at that. Once again, you’ve managed to stimulate genius - or rather, your slippers have. It was the uncles estranged lover.”

“I don’t care. You’re buying me a new pair of slippers. Today. Bloody insufferable.” John grumps, padding into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. 

Sherlock huffs in indignation. “Come now, John. Surely you value science over _slippers_.” John can hear him walk into the kitchen behind him, leaning against the door frame. 

John tries to take a deep breath, but sets the kettle down on the stove _just_ a bit too hard. “No, actually, I don’t give a damn about your _science_ when I wake up cold and alone in bed, which I was willing to forgive, until I almost froze my feet off walking downstairs only to find you had burned my _one pair of slippers_ to a crisp!” He’s breathing hard now. It crosses his mind briefly that he might be overreacting, but for god’s sake, a man needs to vent every once and a while.

Sherlock furrows his brow, pale eyes searching John’s face. “I don’t understand.”

John sets his mouth and runs his hand over his face, trying to reign in his frustration. “You really have no idea what today is, do you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, I don’t have time for games -”

“It’s our anniversary, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but it never comes out. He looks at John, who’s slightly pink and his eyes perhaps just a bit too shiny, and feels… guilt. Certainly, he has made John angry before, frustrated, exasperated, and maybe even vexed, but he has never once disappointed him. At the very least, he has tried very hard not to. Sherlock decides he doesn’t like that tugging feeling in his chest when John looks just a bit defeated. 

John sighs, shoulders sagging.  _You knew what to expect when you got into this, you great git,_ he thinks. “Look, Sherlock, you know I’m not one to expect flowers or dinner and all that lovey-dovey rubbish. But, please. Is it too much to ask that you don’t burn my slippers on our anniversary?”

“I - John. I -” Sherlock starts, but John has already turned off the stove and brushed past him towards the stairs.

Another stifled sigh and a pair of stormy blue eyes downcast. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, really. Look, I’m going to go take a shower and then I’m off to the surgery for the afternoon. We can talk later.” John turns and makes his way up stairs to the shower. 

-

When John returns to the kitchen, Sherlock is gone and there is a note on the table.

 

‘Happy anniversary,

Be home for dinner.

SH’

 

John smiles softly and touches the paper filled with Sherlock’s scrolling script.

He hears the creak of the floorboard behind him, and that’s all he will remember before everything goes black. 

-

 

Sherlock doesn’t like Tesco. It’s loud, and sprawling, and exceedingly boring without listening to John talk to himself about biscuits. Yet, something inside of Sherlock is compelling him to shop. For food. More specifically, food for John.

Sherlock thinks he might actually attempt to crawl out of his skin.

He grits his teeth as he walks briskly through the aisles, past the screaming children and frazzled mothers. He collects the necessary items for tonights dinner and proceeds, extremely reluctantly, to the check out counter. 

The young woman at the counter smiles at him and bats her eyelashes. “Hello, sir. Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “Yes, fine.” 

Her eyes widen as she scans the jasmine rice across the counter, nearly launching it onto the floor. “You’re… you’re Sherlock Holmes! Oh my god, I can’t believe - I am such a _huge_ fan.”

Sherlock barely manages to not roll his eyes, John’s voice echoing in his head ‘ _Would it kill you to actually be civil?’_. He feels a tight smile stretch across his lips and he nods. “Yes. Thank you. I apologize, but I am in somewhat of a hurry.” 

She nods, smiling and laughing a bit too loud, “Yes, yes of course! Special occasion? You’ve got quite the spread here!”

He pauses slightly, handing her his card. “Ah, yes. Anniversary dinner.”

Sherlock is certain she actually melts into the floor. “Oh that is _adorable_. I’m sure your special someone,” she pauses to wink, “will be so thrilled - you’re amazing, solving crimes _and_ spoiling him - or whoever it is-” another wink,  “rotten!” She continues to babble on as she packs his shopping into bags, but Sherlock isn’t listening. He feels that dull tug in his chest again. _This is the first time I have ever done this for John._ He nods curtly at the cashier and collects his bags before hailing a cab back to 221b, mind - and heart - churning the entire way.

-

Sherlock managed to make it up to their flat without dropping any of the shopping (despite the fact that he was positive it was actually _trying_ to escape his grasp) with an hour to spare before John is to return from the surgery. Thankfully, John is a creature of habit and Sherlock is observant, so he knows precisely what time he will be home. 

Sherlock sets about preparing the meal, chopping the vegetables required to make John’s favorite meal - red thai curry. He knows John will appreciate the effort that has gone into making him a proper dinner, and he hopes it will be enough to rid his chest of that terrible, aching tug. 

Time, it seems, flies by when one is completely concentrated on simmering coconut milk and palm sugar to just the right temperature, because when Sherlock next checks the clock it is already half six. 

Sherlock checks his own watch, and then his phone, to make sure the time is correct. 

John is late. He was supposed to return half an hour ago.

Sherlock checks his texts and his voice mail to see if John has called to let him know he’s been kept up with a patient. There is nothing.

This is unlike John, who always keeps his schedule with military precision and texts Sherlock when plans change - yes, Sherlock will admit (albeit begrudgingly) that he is somewhat of a worry wart when it comes to John.

But there is still nothing. 

Sherlock phones the surgery.

“Sherlock?”

A furrowed brow. “I - yes, who is this?”

“It’s Sarah! Sorry, your number is programmed into the phone we have here in case of emergency, that’s the only reason I answered. What’s up?”

Sherlock, despite everything, has a hard won respect for Sarah. She was much better than the other girlfriends John had before he came to his senses. 

“I was just wondering if John had left yet. I know he hates it when I ring his mobile if he’s in with a patient. But... he’s late.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but he can’t quite hide the hint of worry.

“John? He never came in today. I rang his mobile and he never picked up - I just assumed you’d swept him off on another adventure. Is everything okay?” Sarah says, and Sherlock can hear her switch the phone to her other shoulder. She’s concerned. 

“I - no. I don’t know. You haven’t heard from him at all? I haven’t seen him since this morning.” Sherlock says, clearing his throat as his deep baritone threatens to crack with worry. 

Sarah makes a worried noise in her throat. “No, I’m sorry I haven’t. I’ll keep an eye out though, love. Let me know if you hear anything, yeah? I’ll keep my mobile on me, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you, yes.” Sherlock taps _end call_ and worriedly paces for a few moments.

He checks his texts and his voicemail. No missed calls. 

Sherlock taps _John_ in his phone, and waits for it to ring. 

_Ring_

__

His heart begins to beat faster.

_Ring_

__

He can feel a lump developing in his throat and tries to swallow.

_Ring_

__

He tries to quell the nagging voice at the back of his mind telling him _something is wrong_.

_Click_

The phone has been answered. Yet no one speaks.

“John?” Sherlock wants nothing more than to hear his voice.

“Sorry to disappoint, but your sweet Johnny boy is a little… tied up at the moment!” 

A short laugh, and a rustle of movement.

The sinister voice Sherlock has come to hate has a false cheeriness that makes his skin crawl. “Say hi to your darling pet, Sherlock!”

A rush of air past the microphone as the phone is passed and pushed against a cheek.

“Sherlock” John’s voice breaks just enough to send a spike of painlongingheartbreak _something_ through Sherlock’s chest.

“John, are you okay?” He asks, his voice rough and quick.

“Sherlock, I -” John’s sweet voice is gone as the phone is whipped away. A sharp slap rings through the open connection and Sherlock swears he can feel it from here.  

Sherlock closes his eyes. _John. He has John. My John. Moriarty has my John._

__

“Don’t worry darlin’, I’ve got a nice website set up so you can keep your eyes on him. You’d best get in touch with your big brother. He’s got some explaining to do. Ta for now!”

_Click._

__

Silence. 

Sherlock can’t _breathe_. 

  



	2. and i look up, on my knees and out of luck, i look up.

 

Mycroft is nursing a brandy and reviewing a proposal for _another_ Middle Eastern blood bath when the massive mahogany door to his office crashes open and an enraged Sherlock Holmes fills the empty door frame.

“What have you done?” Sherlock explodes and slams his hands flat onto Mycroft’s desk, far past the point of Diogenes regulations, “He took John. He took John and told me to come to you. What. Have. You. Done.”

Mycroft feels nauseous. He knew this would come, but he was not prepared for the panic on his little brothers face, or the red rimming about his painfully light eyes and he feels much more like the ‘bad guy’ now then he ever has before.

“Sherlock, you mustn’t - “ Mycroft starts.

Sherlock rakes his fingers through his unruly curls, his deep baritone choked, “Jesus Christ, Mycroft, _please_ , he _has John_.” 

Mycroft looks at his baby brother. Truly looks. He is thin, as he always has been, but as put on weight and looks healthier. He has, or had, color in his cheeks, and judging by the pads of his fingers has been playing the violin in a much more vigorous fashion as opposed to his usual melancholy melodies. He is, or was, happy. 

John made his baby brother happy. 

_I let loose the monster Sherlock always feared. Only then, he was scared it would take away his teddy. Now, I’ve let the monster take his heart. I only ever wanted to protect him._

“Sherlock. I… am so sorry. Please, sit and I will explain everything.”

A moment of silence.

For once, Sherlock sat as if his bones could not bear his weight any longer. Mycroft explained that he was forced to bargain with Moriarty, that he was the only one who could get anywhere with him. He explained that in exchange for information about Sherlock and John, he would give Mycroft the key to 16 top terrorist threats to the Commonwealth. But even Mycroft Holmes could not reason with a mad man.

Mycroft folds his hands beneath his chin. “Dear brother, I’m sorry. I had no choice.”

Sherlock stands, turns his back and begins to walk away. 

“John is worth more than your commonwealth.”

He stops in the doorway.

“And a brother would never do this.”

__

_-_

__

Lestrade runs a hand over his face and two day stubble. _Christ, I need a coffee._ “We’ve found the website he told you about, Sherlock. Are you certain you want to see it?”

Sherlocks scowl deepens. “Of course I want to see it. I’m the only one who will be able to make anything of it.”

He steps up to the monitor.

There, in video clear as day, is John. He’s in a concrete room, but there are no windows and there are water stains along the walls. _Underground_ , Sherlock makes note. He’s tied to what looks like a steel chair, arms pulled tightly behind his back - _Moriarty is taking advantage of his shoulder,_ he seethes - and his legs spread wide and fastened to the two front legs of the chair. He’s wearing Sherlock’s favorite jumper, the one with the blue and white stripes - only there’s dark red staining the front. John is gagged, and the blood coming from his nose appears to have stopped after thoroughly staining the gag and his shirt. He is looking straight ahead, back impossibly straight for the position he is in. _The bravery of the soldier,_ he thinks.

Beneath the video is a line of text.

  


**I told you I was thinking of getting myself a live in pet. But then I thought… why not take yours?**

**Finders, keepers, losers, weepers!**

****

**Either way, he’s mine now.**

****

 

“Fucking Christ!” Lestrade yells and slams his hand into the wall, startling Donovan and half of Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock’s chest hurts. He stands up straight, only to find himself wobbling on knees that have decided to no longer support his weight and he goes crashing to the floor.

Lestrade catches him halfway down. “Jesus, Sherlock are you alright?”

His head is spinning. The lights are blurry. His voice sounds a bit mumbled to his ears. “John hasn’t been home to make me eat.” He’s not quite sure if he says it aloud or thinks it, but he hears Lestrade yell at Donovan for water. 

He feels more than hears Lestrade gruff rumble. “God help me, Sherlock. We’re going to find him.”

-

Less than fifteen minutes, three bottles of water, and a stale muffin later, Sherlock is back in front of the monitor. John is much the same as he was the first time he saw him, as Sherlock expected. Moriarty won’t pull all his tricks so quickly. Sherlock wants to think and deduce and reason and do all the things that normally work - but he knows, he _knows_ that there is no reason behind this. Moriarty doesn’t want anything except for Sherlock to fall. He wants him to break and crumble like a great empire that has been brought to it’s knees. 

The worst part is that Sherlock feels like he might. He’s never been uncertain. He’s never felt his life spiral out of control or his heart race and race and explode into a million pieces because of one person. One person who anchors him. One person who would follow him anywhere. His one person. 

He stands up abruptly, startling the detectives hunched around him. “You all need to leave. I need room.”

Donovan opens her mouth to protest, but Sherlock’s downcast eyes suddenly meet hers. “Please. I - I need to think.”

As they all leave the room, Lestrade claps a hand on his shoulder. “You know where to find me, alright?”

A tight nod.

As the door clicks shut, Sherlock seats himself in front of the monitor. John is much the same, although his face has begun to bruise where he’s been struck. Above his eyebrow, a deep purple and green bruise is settling in where it doesn’t belong and Sherlock hates it. 

One hour crawls by.

Two.

Three. 

Four.

Five.

By the sixth hour, the sun has passed through beautiful dawn - Sherlock didn’t notice - into an infuriatingly bright morning. Lestrade, Donovan, and a hand full of Yarders now sit next to him, along with a breakfast that Sherlock won’t eat and a coffee that probably won’t be touched until it’s long past cold.

Still nothing.

John has fallen into restless slumber a few times, for no more than an hour total. He is just waking from his latest sleepless rest when the door - _steel,_ Sherlock thinks - opens. 

A large man, roughly 6’4 and over 20 stone comes into view. There is nothing special about his features or his clothing, but Sherlock knows he will never forget his face because the man has a hunting knife, and the man is walking towards John. 

_No,_ Sherlock thinks, _I will not forget you. I will hunt you._

“No.” Lestrade breathes. “Christ, Sherlock. You shouldn’t watch this. I don’t even know if I can watch this.”

“I need data.”

“Sherlock, be reasonable -”

“Shut up.”

The man says something quietly to John, something he obviously expects an answer for because when John remains stonily silent, the man delivers a swift boot to John’s vulnerable ribs. John bites back a cry of pain as he doubles over as much as his bound arms will allow. 

“Try again.” The man says over top of John’s broken breathing. 

A stuttered breath. “No. No, I won’t.”

“Say. it.” The man says. He is losing his patience as he adjusts the grip on his knife in aggravation. 

John shakes his head, breathing hard while righting himself and sitting tall. “No.”

“Alright then, Queen and Country, have it your way!” The man violently turns Johns chair backwards so his back is facing the camera.

Sherlock feels ill.

The man takes the knife and cuts down the top half of John’s jumper, leaving his upper back exposed. 

Lestrade buries his face in his hands. “Fucking Christ.”

The man presses the knife to John’s back, not yet drawing blood. “Say it.”

Even though his back is turned, Sherlock can see John’s beautiful face clear as day, blue eyes angry as a stormy ocean. “You’re pathetic.” John spits. 

With an angry howl, the man slashes violently at John’s shoulders and upper back, tearing through his skin as though it were paper.

 It takes less than 23 seconds for the blood to flow.

It takes 2 minutes before John makes a noise. 

Lestrade kicks a desk when he hears John try to muffle a cry of Sherlock’s name. 

The man drops the knife to the ground and whips John’s chair around to face the camera. There are tears streaming down John’s face, but he is not crying. Sherlock knows he won’t give this man - or Moriarty - the satisfaction. 

“Say it!” The man seethes and wrenches John neck back.

John is breathing hard. “Fine.” The man releases his head and gestures for him to carry on.

John’s face softens as he looks into the camera. “Sherlock…” He glances slightly towards the man.

Sherlock stands, knocking the chair over. “John, say what he wants. _Please_ , say what he wants.”

John steels himself, but his eyes are heartbroken. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Almost instantaneously the man explodes with an enraged roar and delivers a bone breaking punch to the side of John’s face, knocking him unconscious. He marches over to the camera and disconnects the video as Sherlock watches John’s limp form sag on the steel chair. 

-

Scotland Yard is silent. No one says a word.

Sherlock sits with his hands pressed beneath his chin, like a stone angel in prayer. He has said nothing. 

Donovan suddenly stands, abrupt enough to startle the room. “Well, I don’t know about you lot but I can’t just sit here and wait for them to kill John.”

Lestrade rises quickly. “Sally, just give him -”

“No! The freak can sit here all he likes, deducing this and thinking that, but it’s not going to save John - who’s too good for ‘im anyways - from a torturous mad man! You know, I knew when it came to it he wouldn’t have the nerve to stand up and _work_ for it.”

Sherlock stands to his full height, eyes like daggers as he steps to Donovan. His deep baritone is dangerously low. “I would give every _inch_ of my being to be in his place and to have him away from harm. I would joyfully die and spend an eternity in damnation if it meant that John would be safe.” He stops and looks down, voice slightly gravelly. “You will never know the extent to which I wish this had never happened.” He stands and walks from the room without a look back. 

A beat.

Finally, it’s Anderson who speaks. “Listen, I don’t like the man anymore than you Sally, but that was bleeding cold.”

She looks offended, “Me? I was being cold? He was the one sitting there doing nothing!”

“Donovan, enough. You do know that Sherlock and John are together, yeah?” Lestrade asks. 

Silence.

“Jesus”, she breathes. 

Lestrade rubs a hand over his face. “I’ve got to go find him. Think next time you open your gob, alright?”

Donovan remains silent, but nods.

-

Lestrade finds Sherlock on the roof of Scotland Yard.

He slowly walks up to him, making sure his footsteps are loud enough to be heard. “Sherlock? Listen, she didn’t know what she was saying. I’m really sorry. You alright?”

Sherlock turns around, hair tangled from the wind and face damp from - tears. “I never told him.”

His normally concise and smooth baritone is wrecked, gravelly and cracked. Lestrade doesn’t know how to handle this Sherlock.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Never told him what?”

His face crumples and his shoulders seem like they’re desperately trying to hold themselves up despite the immense weight of his heavy heart trying to pull them down. “I never told him - Jesus, I never told him how much I love his smiles, or the wrinkles he gets in his forehead when he thinks, or his stupid hideous jumpers, or how much I can’t bear to live without him.”

 A cold, bitter, London wind blows.

Gregory Lestrade, to this day, can’t believe he was the one who held up Sherlock Holmes as he collapsed to the gravelly roof of Scotland Yard.  

He can’t believe he held up Sherlock Holmes as he cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon! I hope you all liked it!


	3. you must know life to see decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has so much to say. So much he wants to tell him. He only needs the chance.

Sherlock sits in front of the monitor, stoic and silent, hands folded beneath his chin. _Think. What do you know._ _Remember._

__The memory hits him like a ton of bricks.

__

_“You know, for someone who is so constantly difficult, you’re surprisingly cuddly.”_

__

_Sherlock scoffs, “I should be offended that you base my post-coital cuddling abilities on my professional interactions with the less intelligent masses.”_

__

_John props his head up on Sherlock’s shoulder. He smiles, and Sherlock’s fairly sure his heart legitimately skips a beat or two._

__

_He lays his head back onto Sherlock’s chest and let’s out a deep breath. “I love you, you mad tosser.”_

__

_Sherlock can feel his muscles tighten in sudden nervousness. “I - John,” he breathes._

__

_John turns his face up at him and gives him a small smile. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I know.”_

__

_Sherlock pulls him closer._

__

_“Quick question; do we have any kind of plan in case something ever happens to one of us?”_

__

_Sherlock frowns. “Why would you ask that?”_

__

_John shrugs. “I’ve just been thinking about it these past few days. I mean, I know you’d be able to figure things out if something happened to me but how on bloody earth am I supposed to figure it out? Leave me some clues, would you?” he laughs._

__

_“Don’t say things like that,” Sherlock bites._

__

_John sits up a bit. “I’m only joking, love.”_

__

_Sherlock scowls, “Well it’s not funny.”_

__

_John lies back down. “Sorry.”_

__

_Sherlock lets out a sigh._

__

_“You know, when I was in the army they taught us to do signals with our eyes. Morse and the like.”_

__

_A grunt._

__

_John sighs and sits up. “Well, then, let me know when you’re done being a stroppy git. I’ll be downstairs making myself a cup of tea.”_

__

Sherlock stands abruptly, “Rewind the feed!”

Lestrade jumps, snapped out of his exhaustion induced daze. “What?”

“I said rewind the feed! I missed something. _Stupid, stupid!_ ” he spits as he cards his hand through his unruly curls. 

The technical analyst who had been recording the feed skips back over the nearly 12 hours of video. Lestrade and a handful of other Yarders gather around the monitor, watching as Sherlock’s sharp gaze gathers information others could only dream of. “Stop! Play it forwards.” 

_There._  

On the screen, John’s battered and bleeding face is heartbreakingly clear. “Lestrade, watch his eyes,” Sherlock says. 

Lestrade leans closer. “He’s… blinking? Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock is nearly vibrating watching John’s eyes, fingers rapidly tapping against his own leg. 

“Sherlock…?” Lestrade hedges.

Sherlock’s face opens like a stormy sky to the sun, clarity pouring out of his every pour and he whirls around to face Lestrade. “It’s morse code! John, _John you brilliant idiot!_ ” 

Lestrade does a double take from the screen to Sherlock. “Do you know where he is?!” 

Sherlock immediately reaches for his cell phone, but stops before he dials. He whips about and points at a young officer who nervously stands near the back of the room. “You! I need your mobile. Quickly.” The young officer hands Sherlock his mobile with shaky, fumbling hands. Sherlock dials a number deftly.

“If you’d like to redeem yourself then listen carefully.”

-

 

John knows that feeling this particular brand of tired is a bad sign - he is still a doctor, after all. _Stay awake. He’s coming, you know he’s coming.  
_

He’s conscious enough to know that there’s been some serious damage to his ribs and back. _Probability of internal bleeding is high_ , he thinks. The fierceness of his most recent beating left a nice, neat hole between his last two ribs on his left side, and his face nearly swollen to the point of being unrecognizable, blood continuously dripping from a tear below his eyebrow and from his broken nose. His whole body is thrumming with pain.  

_Just stay awake. He’s coming._

__

John can feel his heartbeat getting louder in his own ears, fitfully trying to keep a steady beat. He knows the immense stress his body is under right now will rapidly decrease his chances of making it through the night. Or day. He doesn’t know what time it is anymore. The steady ooze of blood leaking from the stab wound feels sticky and wet. He feels sick, his arms twisted in the cuffs behind the chair and body slumped off the left of the chair. The rattling in his lungs is beginning to turn into a coughing splutter that wrenches his ribs and makes him cry out with pain. _So the blood is in my lungs then_ , he realizes, _hurry up, Sherlock._

__

 John tries to occupy his hazy mind with other thoughts. He can hear what the soldier who found him lying on the sand in Afghanistan said to him; _Come on, Johnny. Tell me about all the things you’re going to do once you get home. Keep talking._ He remembers saying, _Talking? Mate, I’m just trying to keep breathing_. But this time, he’s alone. There’s no one here to talk to him or help him think of other things aside from the searing pain that seems to be slowly burning his whole body.

_What’s the first thing I’m going to do when Sherlock finds me?_ He tries to ignore the “if he finds me” slowly creeping in the back of his thoughts. He coughs, feeling drops of bitter iron fill his mouth. He spits as well as he can, droplets of fresh blood falling to the floor. He tries to breathe through the overwhelming surge of nausea and dizziness that crash through his skull, but the crushed cartilage in his nose does nothing but seize painfully. 

__

_Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake_

It’s becoming more and more difficult to fight the blackness that’s creeping in around the edges of his vision. _Come on, Johnny,_ he thinks. _What are you going to say to Sherlock when he finds you?_  

He coughs, and coughs, and feels the blood flow quicker with each contraction of his ribs. He feels his heart kick frightfully. He can feel the blood in his mouth, but can’t find the strength to lift his neck. His heart kicks again.

_I want to tell him I want to marry him. I want to tell him I want to be with him forever. I want to tell him everything. Please God, give me the chance. Just stay awake. He’s coming._  

John hears shouting and maybe even gunfire. The door bursts open as his heart gives a final, desperate kick and his vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to post the next part! I've been so super busy. I know it's a tad short, but the next is on it's way very soon! Hope you like it!


	4. but i won't rot.

Everything is moving so fast when John next awakes. There are lights whipping past his eyelids and it feels like his body has gone through a paper shredder. He is moving. 

“Welcome back, John. Davis, let’s get him stabilized.” Says an unfamiliar voice.

“John, can you hear me? John, please can you hear me?” 

That voice. He knows that voice. John lets his head roll towards the voice, lacking the strength to do anything else. 

There are other people around him. “Sir, you’re going to need to move out of my way.” 

“John, I’m still right here. I’m right here. Do you feel my hand?” 

John does feel the hand. It feels so familiar. If he could only open his eyes. They feel so heavy.

“John, my name is Tom and I’m a paramedic. You’re in an ambulance right now on your way to the hospital and we’re going to take good care of you, but I need you to try to talk to…?” 

“Sherlock.” Sherlock. The rush of feelings comes back so suddenly that John is surprised to feel the prick of tears behind his eyelids.

“I need you to talk to Sherlock, okay? Can you do that for us?”

John’s head rolls to the other side and back again as he tries to gain some muscle control. He opens his eyes, momentarily blinded by the bright light. 

“John, please if you can, say something.” Sherlock says.

“Sh’lock.” He murmurs.

Sherlock’s watery smile is brighter than the light and his eyes are frantically roaming over John’s features, memorizing what he already knows off by heart. “Yes, I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Good,” is all John manages to get out before he begins to cough. There is a dull, crushing sensation in his chest and the cough turns into a fight for breath. 

“Hang on, John - Davis, grab the manual respiration pump! We’re almost there. I think he’s collapsed a lung.”

Sherlock’s deep baritone is hoarse. “What?”

John can feel Sherlock’s hand tighten before he’s dragged under by blissful unconsciousness. 

-

When John slowly resurfaces, the first thing he feels is the dull, heavy pain of medicated injuries. Ribs, back, legs, face. He stills himself and takes as deep of breaths as his painfully aching ribs will allow. He allows himself a moment to adjust to the pain. He can hear soft conversation. Sherlock and… Mycroft. Yes, Mycroft. John would recognize that posh accent anywhere. 

“I will never be able to take back my actions, Sherlock. But I hope that one day you will find it in yourself to forgive me.”

“He was clinically dead for one minute and thirty four seconds because of you.”

A heavy sigh. “I know.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I already told you.”

A barely concealed rumble of frustration. “I mean the real reason, Mycroft. What you’ve told me is only part of it. Don’t play stupid with me; mummy would be so disappointed.”

A beat. An uncomfortable, tense silence. 

“He… he threatened someone very dear to me.”

“I’m going to assume it wasn’t myself, so who was - Oh.”

A rustle of uncomfortable movement.

“Please be taciturn about the matter, Sherlock. He doesn’t know.”

“Really, Mycroft! I never thought you’d be the kind of gentleman who prefers Detective Inspectors.”

“Sherlock, really. Must you?” Mycroft hisses.

“I would say you’ve earned this at the very least. Who knows, I may just let it slip that you’ve got a school girl crush that almost killed my boyfriend.”

Another heavy sigh. “Fine.”

“What sort of tosser uses taciturn in every day conversation?” says a voice hoarse from disuse.

Sherlock whirls around so fast it makes John feel nauseous. “John.”

John gives him a groggy smile. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock is suddenly next to John, who looks like he’s drowning in this sorry excuse for a bed, hands hovering nervously above every visible inch of his body. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

John laughs and winces. “Love, I’m fine. A little worse for wear, mind, but I’m just too bloody chuffed to see you to care.”

Sherlock collapses in the chair next to John’s bed, taking John’s hand in both of his and resting his head on them. “Don’t. Again - I can’t. John.” 

“Hey, hey. Sherlock. Look at me.” John says, doing his best to sit up in the bed despite the over abundance of tubes and wires that seem to be all over him.

When Sherlock lifts his head, his eyes are red rimmed and shining with unshed tears. 

John runs a hand heavily laden with IVs and tubes over Sherlock’s forehead. “I promise I won’t ever go anywhere you can’t find me - as long as you don’t go anywhere I can’t follow. Come here.”

As Johns shifts slowly over in the bed, the space is filled quickly with Sherlock. As a comfortable silence fills the room, Mycroft slips out of the door, leaving John and Sherlock to wade into sleep.

“John?”

“I’m still here, love.”

“Just checking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SO SO SORRY it's taken me so long to update. I've been hellishly busy. Also, sorry it's so short, but there will be more soon - for real!! xo.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter coming soon!


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